


His Body Betrays Him

by SherlockHolmes



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble, Trans Male Character, trans!Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:51:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockHolmes/pseuds/SherlockHolmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras should have been born differently</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Body Betrays Him

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bloodscout](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodscout/gifts).



Enjolras stood before the mirror, his fingers gently tracing along lines of mistakes on his bare body.

They started at his face. His eyes too wide, his cheek bones too rounded, his lips too soft. Slowly, they moved further down, to where his jaw bone was too faintly defined, to where his throat held no adam’s apple.

Carefully, cautiously, they moved down again, gently prodding the rounded flesh on his chest. For the first time in their exploration, his fingers clenched, leaving red crescents on his skin where his nails dug into it.

Relaxing after a moment, his hands continued their decent, fluttering down to where his waist drew in too far, curving in before moving out again at the hips. His fingers hovered for a second, feeling bone where bone should not be, following the hips to the pelvis.

This was the bit he could never do. His fingers jarred to a halt, refusing to move further. He couldn’t bare for them to go on, to trail carefully over his crotch and find nothing there. There should be something there, not on his chest. It was wrong. A mistake. His soul was trapped in this body, foreign despite it’s twenty two years of wear. His hands once more jumped to his breasts, pressing them violently as if he could get them to collapse into his chest.

They were wrong. Wrong! It was a mistake, just a mistake. Some nights he dreamed they were gone, that he was all sharp lines and hard muscles and angled face. Then reality would cruelly snatch him from his dream, presenting him with this. Hands would press, teeth would grind. Without the care needed his chest would be bound, before being hidden under shirts and coats and vests, until only he knew that they were covering.

Then he’d go out, face his friends. Speak and cringe, as his carefully chosen and spirited words came out as someone else’s. Too high, too lilting, too feminine. The others pretended they didn’t notice, acted like they couldn’t hear it, but he knew they did. It grated at him, knowing that however much he bound his chest, no matter how he dressed, his voice still betrayed him. A lesser man would have just stayed silent, but not Enjolras. Enjolras refused to let it stop him, no matter how much it hurt.

He was somebody's son, no matter what fate dictated.


End file.
